


kept apart with an imaginary line

by inlovewithnight



Series: Pretty [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: BDSM, M/M, ritualized submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Panthers lose to the Pens again; Aaron goes to Malkin again. But it's not the same as the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kept apart with an imaginary line

The Penguins fucking wipe the floor with them. Aaron can’t believe it. What the fuck _happened_ out there?

He gets a talking-to in the locker room about his fight at the end of the third, and for mouthing off at the ref. Yeah, it was stupid, but he was pissed. He can’t be a saint all the time. He can tell everybody actually gets that, but they have to act like they really mean this lecture, because… who the fuck knows. Because he’s a rookie and has to be taught to do things right. Whatever.

“Can I go?” he asks once the scrum is over. “Crosby’s probably waiting for me.”

Willie gives him an odd look. “What’s the hurry?”

Aaron shrugs, trying not to look like he’s crawling out of his skin. Play it cool. Be mature. “Gotta go get my lesson, right?”

“I guess so. It’s not gonna be Crosby, though.”

“What?”

Now Willie’s just looking at him like he’s insane. He _hates_ this, when he misses some kind of secret code and is out of step with everyone.

“Malkin’s taken an interest in you,” Willie says. “Did you really not know that?”

Aaron’s mind flashes to the collar at the bottom of his duffel bag, and he feels heat rising in his face before he can check himself. “ _You_ know that?”

“Everybody knows, kid, he put the word out.”

Aaron stands there for a minute, twisting the handle of his duffel bag around his fingers. Why would Malkin do that? Why would he… Put the word out to _everybody_ or just the captains or what? How do people even _get_ this information, and when is someone going to let him in on it?

“Is that okay?” he asks finally. This isn’t the time for any of the other questions. A tantrum in the locker room after his tantrum on the ice will wreck everything he’s built up this season.

Willie gives him another weird look, shakes his head, and walks away. Nobody fucking explains anything in this league.

**

Malkin is waiting outside of the Pens’ locker room, leaning against the wall and looking at his phone. He looks good in his suit, his tie loose and his hair mussed up, and he’s smiling like a guy who scored two goals has a right to. Aaron isn’t sure if he wants to run to him or punch him.

He doesn’t do either, just walks to him and waits, standing up straight while Malkin laughs softly at his phone and then tucks it in his pocket and turns his smile on Aaron. “Hey, pretty. Good game.”

“Good game for you,” Aaron says. “Not so much for me.”

“Not bad, though. Good energy, lots of time on ice.” Malkin pushes off the wall and starts walking. “Little fight at the end. Lucky he didn’t break your face, you know? Not so pretty, then.”

Aaron takes a deep breath and follows. So this is how it’s going to be.

“Don’t be sad,” Malkin goes on, patting him on the shoulder. “Get food, go home, feed you, mess around. Relax.”

“Will I learn something?” It sounds snotty and petulant even to himself, but Malkin just shrugs and holds the door to the parking lot open for him.

“Maybe, maybe not. Don’t know what you already know, you know?”

“This whole thing, with the captains, is supposed to be about _learning_ something, they keep telling me, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to learn.”

Malkin points him toward the right car. “Me neither.” 

“Was it the same when you were a rookie? What did you learn?”

Malkin frowns a little. “I was rookie in Superleague. Different in Russia.”

“Yeah?” Aaron throws his bag in the back seat and climbs in. “What did they make you do there?”

“Didn’t make me do anything. We had dinner together, drank together, old guys told us about old days, gave advice about life on the road.” Malkin glances at him and puts the car in gear. “NHL is fucking weird about rookies.”

Aaron leans his seat back a little and looks out the window. “I feel like I’m missing something that would make everything make sense.”

“Focus on hockey. That’s the part that matters. Rest is just noise.” 

They’re quiet for a moment, and Aaron wonders if he should put the radio on or something, but Malkin speaks again.

“You bring the present with you?”

“Yeah.” Aaron clears his throat, grateful that the car is too dark for Malkin to see him blush. “In my bag.”

“Good. And you like steak?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Good.” Malkin hits the gas a little harder and they glide through the streets like they’re on a mission. “Just relax. We’ll have fun tonight.”

**

Like the last time, they eat good food in silence first. Aaron concentrates on his take-out containers--steak, vegetables, mashed potatoes golden and sweating with butter, all the rolls he could eat, chocolate cake; Malkin must have some kind of a weakness for cake--and waits for the anger and frustration to fall away.

It doesn’t, though. He’s still pissed off and he still kind of wants to fight and there’s no way that’s going to fit with whatever Malkin wants for the night.

He’s taller than Malkin by a fraction, and heavier by a little more than that. He doesn’t think that would give him any advantage in an actual fight; he has full confidence in himself on the ice, in skates and pads, less so here in Malkin’s living room. Malkin has that extra something in the way he carries himself, extra _knowing_ of some kind. That pisses Aaron off, too. 

Everything about this is pissing him off, but nothing as much as the fact that he can’t tell if he doesn’t want to fight Malkin, or if he does but he _wants Malkin to win_. 

He drops his fork to the floor and kicks halfheartedly at it. “Shit.”

“You okay?” Malkin asks around a mouthful of bread. “Leave it, get another one.”

“I’m done eating.”

Malkin watches him for a moment and then nods, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Still angry, yeah?”

“Yeah. I guess so.” He can’t just leave the fork lying there, getting chocolate crumbs on Malkin’s floor. He picks it up and holds it tightly, trying to will self-control into himself from the fingers up.

“One of the things you’re supposed to learn, probably,” Malkin says. “Leave it on the ice, don’t take it home. The anger.”

Aaron snorts and tosses the fork into the pile of crumpled napkins and empty takeout boxes. “Yeah, right. I’m supposed to believe you never bring it home with you?”

“Course I do, sometimes.” Malkin shrugs. “But I still know the lesson, you know?”

Aaron worries his lip between his teeth. “I’m really tired of lessons,” he says finally, and lifts his eyes to Malkin’s face. “Can we do something else?”

Malkin smiles slowly and takes a long swallow of beer, letting the silence stretch and grow heavy. “Sure, pretty. Get the present and come back to the bedroom with me.”

**

The bedroom is impressive, which isn’t the first adjective Aaron expected to come to mind. It fits, though. The furniture is all heavy dark wood, the carpet is soft and deep, and when Malkin flips the switch the light comes up dim and recessed. Permanent mood lighting. 

“Do you like to pretend you live in a castle or something?” Aaron asks, looking over his shoulder. “This is like… Game of Thrones style, or something.”

“Good show.” Malkin nods at the bed. “Undress, sit down there. Give me the present first.”

Aaron strips, tossing his clothes on the floor in the general direction of the dresser, then turns to face Malkin. “What are you going to do?”

“Sit down first.” When Aaron does as he’s told, Malkin steps close to him, holding the collar stretched taut between his hands. “You okay to wear this right tonight?”

Aaron remembers twisting the leather around his wrist and tries to imagine what it’ll feel like against his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. I’m ready.”

Malkin’s fingers brush against Aaron’s throat while he buckles the collar in place, and that keeps Aaron’s attention more than the leather itself. He lifts his chin higher, trying to make sure he isn’t getting in the way, and Malkin chuckles. Aaron’s pulse picks up at the sound, heat rushing through his body, and he forces himself to keep his hands at his sides.

Malkin takes half a step back and looks at him. “Good?”

Aaron licks his lips, trying to act like it’s no big deal. “Yeah. It’s fine.” It’s not earth-shaking, his world hasn’t changed or whatever, but it feels… nice, against his skin. It’s snug enough that he knows it’s there but doesn’t pinch. He likes the way Malkin’s looking at it, and at him wearing it. “It’s good.”

“Okay.” Malkin tilts his head slightly, studying Aaron from head to toe. “How you feel about being tied up?”

The real answer is that he’s never thought about it. He can’t bring himself to say that here. “Tied up… how?”

Malkin takes something off the bedside table and tosses it to him. Aaron can’t figure out what it is at first--a jumble of leather and metal, some of the leather stiff like the collar and some of it padded--until he rolls it correctly in his hands by accident and realizes it’s a set of handcuffs. Fancy handcuffs, fancy leather handcuffs.

Oh.

Malkin chuckles again and Aaron looks up at him, catching Malkin studying him closely. “Yeah, you don’t like it,” Malkin says. “Okay. No problem.”

“It’s not… I don’t know if I like it. I don’t _get_ it.” Aaron waves the cuffs at him. “I don’t get why. Are you going to hurt me? Or what?”

Malkin rubs his face, features vanishing behind his hand for a moment before Aaron can see them again. He’s not smiling, but he’s not scowling either. He looks… patient. “No, Aaron. Not going to hurt you.”

“Then why do you want to tie me up?” He presses his thumb against the padding inside the cuffs. “I’ll do it if it makes sense.”

“Tie you up to keep you still,” Malkin says, taking the cuffs from Aaron’s hand. “So it can last longer. Okay?”

Aaron stands there for a minute, his hand still open, the collar feeling tighter against his pulse in his throat. “Okay,” he says after a moment. “That, uh. That makes sense.”

“Good.” Malkin smiles at him and his pulse jumps again. He’s going to get lightheaded if this keeps up. “Give me your hands.”

**

Malkin cuffs Aaron’s hands behind his back and guides him facedown on the bed, shifting him around like a doll until he’s satisfied. “Turn your head,” he prompts, patting Aaron on the shoulder. “Don’t suffocate.”

“I guess it would be hard to explain why you’ve got a dead body in your house.” 

“If wasn’t you, no. Just tell them Russian Mafia.” Malkin starts taking off his own clothes. “You, yeah, need a good story. Or pay off cops.”

Aaron laughs weakly and tests the cuffs. “Not really comforting, dude.”

“Is joke.” Malkin rubs Aaron’s shoulder, then steps out of his trousers, folding them carefully and hanging them over the closet door. “Nobody die tonight, okay?”

“Yeah.” Aaron tries to watch him from the corner of his eye as Malkin moves around the bed. “What are you going to do?”

“Last time you touch me. At All-Star you touch yourself. Pictures, nobody touch anybody. Now I touch you.”

Aaron breathes out slowly, feeling his dick twitch and swell, pressed between his body and the bed. “Okay.”

“Patient.” Malkin moves back into his field of vision, naked now and rubbing his palm over his dick in slow, lazy strokes. “Can take all night, this time.”

“I have to get back to the hotel tonight.”

“Told Mitchell I’ll bring you to bus tomorrow morning. All taken care of.” Malkin’s hand curves around the back of Aaron’s neck, adding warm pressure to the feel of the collar. “No more questions now. Patient. Relax.”

Aaron tries to do as he’s told. He closes his eyes, focuses on breathing through his nose, tries to just, like, be present in his body. That doesn’t take very long before he’s back to wondering what Malkin is _doing_ , why he isn’t touching him. Is this a game or a trick or some kind of--

Malkin’s hand slides down his back, tracing his spine so slowly it seems like he’s aware of every cell being touched in turn. At the base, just above his ass, Malkin makes a slow circle and presses down, easily holding Aaron’s hips to the bed and putting more pressure on his dick.

It’s just Malkin’s hand on his back, it doesn’t even have to be sex. One of the trainers could make this exact amount of pressure on him and Aaron wouldn’t blink. Malkin doing it is getting his dick hard, making him want to thrust against the mattress. He does once, experimentally, and Malkin pulls his hand away to swat him across the ass.

“Patient. How many times I say, pretty?”

So the game is to stay still and let Malkin play games all fucking night if he wants to. Okay. Aaron is a professional athlete. He can win any game he puts his mind to. And Malkin won’t take _that_ long, surely; he’ll want to get to the good stuff as much as Aaron does.

He didn’t factor in the fact that Malkin is a total asshole.

Malkin stays back where Aaron can’t see him, only giving himself away with sound and touch. Sound: a hitch of breath or a little laugh when Aaron’s body jerks in response or frustration, or the slight rhythmic sound of him stroking himself. Touch: his hands on Aaron’s back, his ass, his thighs. Once or twice, fingers brushing against the soles of his feet, leaving him to curse and kick.

Aaron doesn’t have a clue how much time has passed. He just knows that his dick is hard as a rock, leaking all over Malkin’s sheets, and that he’s going to die despite his promise if something doesn’t _happen_ soon.

The bed shifts under him as Malkin climbs onto it, one of his hands loosely gripping Aaron’s hip as he finds his balance. “Okay?”

“Good. I’m good.” Aaron’s eyes are still closed, his hands flexing mindlessly, not so much testing the cuffs as reminding himself that they’re there over and over again.

“Touch you now.” The warning doesn’t make sense for a moment, and then, oh right, it _does_ , as Malkin’s hands move to either side of Aaron’s shoulders and he braces himself over Aaron’s body, his dick settling heavy and blood-warm on Aaron’s lower back.

Malkin starts to move, thrusting his hips and shifting until he finds just the right pattern to rub himself against Aaron’s body. His legs are tangled with Aaron’s, his breath hot on his neck, and every so often he rests his arms and settles down against Aaron entirely, holding him down to the bed and pressing the breath out of his body. Aaron’s heart is pounding in his ears, he’s sweating like he’s on the ice, and he’s grinding down against the sheets in a steady rhythm that would do the trick if not for the fact that the angle is _just_ wrong.

“Ah,” Malkin huffs against his neck. “Ah, ah--” The bed shifts again and his chest settles on Aaron’s back as he moves one hand back to jerk himself off, shooting hot and messy over Aaron’s skin. “Fuck. Feel so good. Good.” He takes a breath, and Aaron wants to beg him to _do_ something, tell him that stopping like this isn’t fucking fair at all. But Malkin sits up, easing himself off of Aaron altogether, then catches him by the shoulder and rolls him over onto his back.

“Good,” Malkin says again, and kisses him hard on the mouth. “Now you.” His hand closes around Aaron’s dick warm and solid, giving a little squeeze, and Aaron’s hips rock up in welcome.

One more thing he didn’t expect tonight: Malkin slides down and takes him in his mouth, moving his head in a familiar bob to wet his cock and then take it deep. 

“Jesus,” Aaron gasps, pulling against the cuffs again, his feet scrambling against the sheets. “Fuck, dude, fuck, fuck--”

He comes fast, and Malkin swallows him down, sitting back with a smug smile that turns into a grin as he licks his lips.

“Good for you, too, pretty?”

Aaron nods stupidly, staring at Malkin’s mouth, desperate to kiss him again and without any idea if he could ask for that. “Good. Really good. Dude… Malkin…”

“Aaron.” Malkin leans down and kisses him, and that’s a relief, that he doesn’t have to ask at all. “Okay to call me Geno. Not your coach, not your boss.”

The question that comes to mind is even worse, so of course this one he says without pause. “What are you, then?”

Malkin--Geno--is quiet for a moment, then kisses him again and turns him on his side to undo the cuffs. “We talk about that later.”

“Really?”

Geno tosses the cuffs off the bed and pulls Aaron back against him. The sheets are wet, and Aaron’s skin is sticky, but suddenly he’s too tired to move, and from the heavy slackness of Geno’s arms, so is he.

“Yeah,” Geno says. “Later. Sleep now. Take you back to your team in the morning.”

This is how it goes, stuff he doesn’t understand giving way to stuff that has to happen for the team, so Aaron nods and closes his eyes, and in a moment he’s asleep.


End file.
